For My Lover, Returning to His Wife
by bisexualcharliedavis
Summary: Perhaps I should have warned you, made you aware, offered you the same chance? Tell me, Doctor, had you known it would be the last time you would kiss me until my lips were swollen would have drawn it out? (Charlie/Lucien, Lucien/Jean) (Inspired by the Anne Sexton poem of the same name)


A/N wasn't sure if I should put this under T or M :/ Im going with T for the minute but plz tell me if you think it belongs under M. Otherwise: this fic contains mentions of gay sex. And a pretty considerable age difference. So if u dont like that, then leave :-)))))))) But heres that blake/charlie ive been promising people for ages. And blake/jean too. Two birds with one stone lmao. Review if you liked it or whatever. Title taken from poem of the same name by Anne Sexton.

Lucien

Forgive me, for I have never been an eloquent speaker, for all I might try I know that the only way I will ever be able to be truly honest with you is though letter.

It is easy to see, how you could seduce a lover, especially one as young as myself. You are a tempest of fury and love that rains down on me from the sky, even as we met indoors. It is easy to see how I would accept such a proposition, I am a shadow, who hides behind others, feather thin and silent. Unnoticed.

It is easy to see how I could allow myself such affections for you, as you were everything I had always wanted to be. Handsome, strong, brave and kind. Your kiss was soft and your fingers were kind. I knew, in the weeks after we met that I would want your fingers tangled in my hair and your lips of my neck. Forgive me for being lustful, as I know I myself will not.

She is not your wife in name; but you love her as one, and even when you are with me, I know it is with her that your heart belongs. In her hair that your fingers should be and her throat that meets your lips. I am aware that she belongs with you, for she is the solid to your storm, the unmoving barrier that prevents you from destroying everything in your path, while I am at the center.

You were wild and windy, fierce and strong. I was unable to look away from the destruction you had caused, even as my hair was whipped furiously and the dirt and sand splattered my face. I could not move or think, simply allowing myself to be wrapped in your onslaught. You were precise, your fingers deft and your face filled with warmth while I cried out, my body sweaty, my fingers hopeless in their search for purchase on your back, nails too dull to leave you with any kind of mark.

I was all teeth, hands clumsy in their attempts to please you, desperately seeking your praise like a child riding his bike without the training wheels for the first time.

Your praise was my delight. It was better then any orgasm you had ever bestowed upon me, better then the smell of summer rain, and the taste of fresh bread. You were my cigarette, your words, your affection, my addiction; filling my lungs, warming me from the inside out, allowing me to truly breathe, to feel. And you. You always gave it, after, when you were finished with my body. You stroked my cheek, my chest, my thigh, and told me how pleased you were with me. You told me, over and over how wonderful I was, how beautiful I was with bitten lips and messy hair, how you yourself had your own cravings, how you wanted to bite and rip and tear and leave your mark on me for all the world to see. How if you thought you could get away with it, then you would leave your bites all up and down my throat, how beautiful I would look and I am vain.

So I believed you. Forgive me, but perhaps in my ignorance, in my naivete, I also believed the sweet lies you whispered in my ear regarding our future. My future. But I am at the center now, it is calm all around me as we settle into a routine of lies and glances. Feather soft touches chaste, quick kisses.

But the calm in the eye of the storm is only half of the battle. I have been but a momentary delight from the box life has presented you with. I am sweet, and delightful, enjoyed while here, but always gone too soon; an empty packet now thrown to the side, a cup drained of its sweet contents. I am but a passing pleasure.

With her, you are different. There is not so many explanations or awkward pauses. I craved your attention, the warm light of affection. She craves your love, she craves you, and all of you. She is like you, a monument built tall from a lifetime of work. I am young, a small seedling compared to the weeping willows and strong oaks. I am a puddle compared to a lake. She is the overseeing pines, and the rosebush, filled with beautiful blossoms that reach skyward. She is a hundred years worth of love and experience, and I am but a decade. Your nights with her are filled with laughter, you connect, sparks fly freely. Do not lie to me, and assure me that you do not feel it. It was always coming, the second half of the storm. Your love for her grows stronger, and I selfishly try to steal whatever moments I can from you.

The storm threatens the horizon as we meet for the last time in your room. I spent time memorizing all of your features, as you slept, the curve of your stomach, the muscle of your shoulder, the roundness of your thigh I took it all in. I counted each eyelash as they flickered with your dreams of her, and I kissed every finger tip to soothe your frenzied breathing. I stroked your face gently, allowed my fingers to catch on your beard, I memorized ever strand. I tangled our feet beneath the sheets, and allowed you to reflexively wrap your cold toes around my warm ones. I marveled at how even in sleep you are so warm and giving, and I craved you all over again.

Perhaps I should have warned you, made you aware, offered you the same chance? Tell me, Doctor, had you known it would be the last time you would kiss me until my lips were swollen would have drawn it out? Would you have let your fingers linger slightly on my pectorals, the way you would when we first engaged one another? Would your eyes linger on my thighs, memorizing each of the freckles, every mole that marks my stomach, would you still have kissed my clavicle? Perhaps you would have taken it all so much slower, dragged it out for as long as you could. Perhaps you would have made me beg you to speed up, or perhaps you would make me beg for release? Would you have finally laid your stake? Would you have bitten me, on the throat, on the chest, on the stomach or my thigh? Would you have broken the skin? Would you have licked the wound clean and apologize after for getting so carried away?

If you had known it was the last time, would you still have invited me to stay in bed with you? Would you still have whispered sweetly in my ear about how we should tell people? Would you try and convince me that no one would think any less of me? Tell me, Doctor, would you still have kissed me and told me you loved me?

Perhaps you would have. Perhaps not. We will never know now. If I told you all this in person, I know you would be able to convince me not to leave you. You are persistent, and when you have someone you have them completely. You do not know when it is time for something to end.

You have my blessing, every blessing I am able to give them you have it. I am not mad, I am not upset that you must leave me. I am young, perhaps there is time for me to love again. I assure you, promise with all I am able, that I will keep it to myself. This affair of ours will remain ours and ours alone. All I ask of you is the same courtesy.

Forgive me for telling you this though a letter, forgive my vanity, forgive my lust. Please. But forgive yourself also. There is nothing that could have been done. She was always the better option. She is strong, solid and dependable. She is the perfect opposite of you, and yet so similar. She has known you longer, memorized your quirks and habits. She does not bend to the will of the storm, she is thick like stone, unmovable, unbreakable.

As for me?

I am a watercolour. I wash off.

Charlie


End file.
